Enoch's Device by Joseph Finley

two remaining soldiers seized Ciarán by his arms. “Let me go!” he cried, struggling, but the mailed gloves held him tight.
    “Unfortunately, there’s no more need for you,” the priest said, taking a long dagger from one of the soldiers. Ciarán shrank back, but they had him.
    Father Gauzlin pressed the dagger against Ciarán’s neck. “Where’s your Irish luck now?”
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
FIRE AND FURY
    T he moment he saw the mastiff, Dónall knew that the soldiers could not be far behind. He had run down the trail that led to the peat bog, a winding pathway through dense woods, crisscrossed by fallen limbs green with moss. From the near darkness ahead came the sounds of men moving through the woods, confirming his fears.
    Spotting a briar thicket at the foot of a gnarled old oak, he tucked the book satchel deep beneath the briars, in a hollow formed between two great roots of the ancient tree, and then plunged his staff into the thicket. Next, he drew the short sword from its leather scabbard hidden beneath his habit, and tossed it into the briars.
    Down the path to his left, leaves rustled. Dónall darted to the right, with the dog following obediently behind him. It was the same mastiff who had heard the Fae word of power Dónall uttered two days ago. He had no idea how animals understood that primal, elemental language older than man or why they respected those who could speak it—only that they did. The dog posed no threat to Dónall, but not so his human pursuers. Ahead of him, two Franks emerged from the mist with drawn swords.
    “We have him!” one of the Franks cried in Latin.
    Dónall spun around to bolt in the opposite direction, but a third soldier burst from the mist and barreled into Dónall, sending him crashing into a slick of leaves and mud. He landed hard on his left shoulder. The Frank peered down, holding his torch high, showing a grin of rotten teeth amid an untrimmed beard. Shoulder throbbing, Dónall heard the noise of more men approaching. In moments, three more Franks came down the trail, followed by four more and then a taller man with a more stately stride, clad in a bishop’s robes: Adémar of Blois.
    Under his breath, Dónall whispered a prayer for deliverance, and wondered for an instant whether he should have kept his weapons. But against so many men, they would have done little but hasten his own death.
    The bearded soldier grabbed Dónall by his habit and yanked him to his feet. Clutching his aching shoulder, Dónall eyed the bishop. “I don’t remember you from Reims.”
    Adémar of Blois made a faint smile. “I was not there,” he replied. “But I have spoken to those who were. I know of your crimes.”
    “It’s been twenty years since I was in France,” Dónall said. “What brings you now?”
    Adémar’s expression darkened. “I want the Book of Maugis d’Aygremont.”
    “Why has the Church taken such an interest in a paladin of Charlemagne?”
    “You know what that book contains,” Adémar snapped. “Tell me where it is!” He punctuated his words with a stinging backhand across Dónall’s face. The blow snapped Dónall’s head to the side.
    “I know you have it!” Adémar said through gritted teeth.
    The coppery taste of blood filled Dónall’s mouth, and he spat it at the bishop’s feet.
    Adémar stepped back as the bearded Frank bashed a mailed fist into Dónall’s ribs. A rib cracked, and Dónall felt as if the breath had been sucked from his lungs.
    “Tell me now!” Adémar roared. “Else, you’ll burn before Nocturns.”
    “In . . . my cell,” Dónall wheezed.
    “You lie,” Adémar replied. “We’ve searched it thoroughly.”
    “It’s hidden in the walls,” Dónall said, gasping for a second breath. “In a space between the corbelled stones.”
    Adémar glanced at one of his men, who just shrugged. “Show me,” Adémar demanded. “And the book had better be there.”
    The bishop turned back toward the monastery as the bearded Frank